


Heat or Something Like It

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, DOBB, Destiel Omegaverse Big Bang, Fans and Fandom, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Getting Together, Humor, Knotting, Love Confessions, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Meta, No dubious consent, Omega Dean, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Scent Kink, Scenting, Spells & Enchantments, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, True Mates, Witches, slick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Team Free Will embark on a hunt to track down the thing that’s been making people disappear in the Winchesters’ home town of Lawrence, Kansas. Imagine their surprise when the big bad they uncover isn’t a thing at all, but a fan girl who also happens to be a witch. Considering their past experiences, Dean and Sam already know that Supernatural fans should never be underestimated, and that plenty of them are scary, if not outright dangerous. As it turns out, fan girls with magical powers who aren’t afraid to use them? Even more so.When the hunt goes sideways, Sam, Dean, and Castiel find themselves on the wrong end of an extremely shady curse. Worse yet, our villain has some very specific and disturbing thoughts about what romance in the Bunker should look like. Thankfully for the Winchesters and Castiel, both fate and free will have other ideas. Now, with the clock ticking on Dean’s well-being, all that’s left is for Dean and Castiel to get their heads out of their asses and give in to the heat and hormones calling their names, before the claws of Dean’s heat take hold and he’s lost forever.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 151
Kudos: 772
Collections: Destiel Omegaverse Big Bang, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Heat or Something Like It

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the Destiel Omegaverse MiniBang! I had this idea swimming around for a while in my head, and this was the perfect opportunity to ~~torture Dean~~ bring it to life.
> 
> Thank you so much to [Kade aka Synk_Art](https://twitter.com/ArtSynk), who I'm SO glad picked this little story and came up with the most awesome, amazing art. The second piece is semi-NSFW, it's embedded about 3/4 of the way through, so just be warned if you're reading on the bus or at the Thanksgiving dinner table next to grandma. Thank you Kade, for being such a pleasure to work with, honestly, you were such a dream. <3 
> 
> Thank you to my eternally patient editor @coinofstone for making this not shit and to the DOBB mods for running a fun and welcoming challenge. <3

_Fan girls._

After the whole fiasco with Becky using magic to make Sam think he was in love with her—to get him to _marry_ her—Dean didn’t exactly need a lot of convincing to believe that _fan girls_ are some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet. Give him a thirsty bloodsucker, a hungry werewolf and a full moon, hell, even a juiced-up Djinn flying high and untouchable on archangel mojo, that’s Dean’s wheelhouse. Going up against the King of Hell or God and his stalker-y, vindictive sister? Psh, milk run. All in an average day’s work for a Winchester. After everything he’s been through, those things are hardly able to strike fear in Dean’s bones anymore.

But _fan girls?_ Never mind fan girls with magical powers, who not only know the truth about the Supernatural, but who actively practice witchcraft and aren’t afraid to use spells to get what they want—you can miss Dean Winchester with _all_ of that. 

In fact, if it weren’t for the advent (discovery? whatever) of witch-killing bullets, while it pains Dean to admit (which is why he won’t be doing it out loud), he might have just given this entire hunt a hard pass on principle. Not that he’s about to tell anyone that’s the reason he’s being cagey, least of all Sam or Cas, but witches already make his damn skin crawl. Add in to that mix some psycho chick who read a couple of books with his name in them and who suddenly thinks she’s an expert on all things Winchester, including but not limited to entertaining the idea that he and Sam are—you know what? No need to finish that thought. It’s bad enough it’s out there in the world at all, Dean’s not trying to tulpa _that_ particular nightmare into existence. 

Relative point being—absolutely nothing about this case is something Dean has _ever_ wanted to be anywhere near. Not in the same state, never mind the same town, hell, he’d opt out of the entire multiverse where the Supernatural books are in any way a thing if he could. _None_ of that is something Dean wants him or his people mixed up in, and he should have followed his gut. 

So why the hell is he in Lawrence, Kansas, holed up in a cheap-ass motel room that smells like every Grandma ever’s apartment (musty, with a hint of lemon pledge, talcum powder, and stale peppermints—not that Dean’s ever had a Grandma’s apartment of his own to compare to), letting Sam talk his fuckin’ ear off about how they should handle this case? 

Slumping back in his chair, Dean tunes Sam out as he pulls back the sun-bleached curtain hanging over the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cas sauntering across the parking lot, returning safe and sound from his solo recon adventure. Not that he’s _worried_ about Cas out there on his own, of course not. Cas is a big boy, he can handle himself. But honestly, Sam and all his shop talk started getting brain-melty nearly an hour ago, and Dean can only hang on for so long these days without a buffer. 

_Especially_ when he’s fairly certain he wants nothing to do with this job to begin with, and he’s said so at least seventeen times. 

At the end of the day, though, Dean trusts his brother, and it’s not like he can come up with a solid reason as to why he’s uneasy about tracking this witch down, anyway. _Something_ doesn’t feel right, but Dean can’t begin to put his finger on what that might be. Outside, the weather in their nostalgic-perfect hometown isn’t fucking helping. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, it’s sixty-eight degrees and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d be suspicious of that, too. It’s all just a little _too_ perfect, if you ask him.

But no one did, because no one cares what Dean’s instincts say, apparently. Sam and his big fuckin’ brain are sure Team Free Will— _one L’oreal spokesman, one semi-functional alcoholic, and one wayward angel with questionably-charged batteries—_ can handle what he refers to as “just one witch”. Apparently Dean is the only one of their trio who hasn’t conveniently forgotten that _Rowena_ is also “just one witch,” and they definitely couldn’t take her on without a shit ton of firepower and backup—but hey, who is Dean to second-guess his brother when he’s a man with a(n extremely vague) plan? 

Speaking of which, Dean supposes he should tune back in to whatever Sam is saying—he’s probably due for an aptly-timed “mmhmm” or at least a grunt right about now. Sam’s been talking pretty much nonstop since the two of them got back to the motel room they’d rented here in town, and Dean has to focus pretty hard to avoid dwelling on the knowledge that it’s less than two streets away from their restored childhood home. Sam, on the other hand, seems completely unbothered by that fact, and not for the first time, Dean wonders if he drew the short end of the stick by having those memories at all. Sam would probably disagree, but Sam uses twenty-four dollar conditioner, so it’s not like he’s _actually_ that smart. 

Dean snorts to himself and Sam pauses, making a confused face, but Dean just waves him off and he goes back to rambling while pointing down at something in one of his books. 

Another peek out the window, no Cas, and Dean sighs with disappointment, forcing himself to pay attention to Sam. His brother is sitting across from him at the wobbly wooden table, a staple along with the shitty wooden chairs they’re folded into, for a nameless no-tell motel. Just the latest in a long, long list of same, and Dean thinks wistfully about the memory foam mattress waiting for him in the Bunker. Alternating between typing away at his laptop and shuffling through the paperwork they’d collected on the case so far, Sam’s stopped talking, and Dean hopes that means he’s about to circle back and summarize, not that he missed all the important stuff while his mind was elsewhere. 

Dean tries to sit up and look interested, shifting his sore tailbone against the uncomfortable-ass chair and dragging a hand over his tired face. When his palm slips past his eyes and he blinks hard against the desire to close them and take a nap, he can’t help but zero in on the nasty, greyish-brown water stain spreading across the motel room ceiling. _Classy place._

“It’s just one witch,” Sam blurts out suddenly, spreading his hands and shooting Dean the puppy dog eyes when he snaps his gaze back down and nods, doing his best to follow Sam’s train of thought even though Dean definitely got off several stations back. _One witch, right._ At least that’s not new information, it’s what Sam’s been saying all along. “So what if she… writes some questionable fiction and posts it on the internet?”

 _Oh right, that._ The likely reason Dean can’t get behind this case fully, the thing that’s making his hackles rise, making him want to jump in his Baby and hightail it out of town, never to return. What’s a few missing people weighed against having to interact with someone who thinks he’s fucking his brother? Definitely a worthy sacrifice, as far as Dean is concerned. Oh well, sometimes the monsters win. The Family Business win/loss statements still have him and Sam _way_ the fuck in the black, and doesn’t that count for something? Not to Sam, apparently.

Unable to believe his ears, Dean shakes his head, wide-eyed and irritated. “You cannot seriously be telling me you don’t have a problem with this.” He splutters and gestures wildly in the direction of Sam’s laptop screen, where presumably the offending material is displayed, not that he’s willing to look. “With _that._ With the… the _you._ And the… the _me._ And the—”

“Alright, Dean, I get it, seriously, no need to rehash the details.” Sam cuts him off with a casually dismissive wave and a hand pulled down over his own face, which Dean can’t help but feel is not _nearly_ a disturbed enough reaction for their current situation. He folds his arms and glares and in response, Sam spreads his arms wide, _what do you want me to do?_ And okay, fair. It’s not as if Sam can hack those sites out of existence. _Can he?_ Dean wonders, before filing that question away for later because that’s definitely worth asking about when Sam is less preoccupied (and annoyed with him).

“Of course, I have a problem with it,” Sam says emphatically, punctuating his statement with a put-upon sigh as Dean treks over to the mini-fridge and retrieves two beers. He pops both tops on the side of the table, sliding one towards his brother as he sits back down. Sam continues, “Dude, I don’t even like to see your porn mags in with the groceries. I still have nightmares about the time I walked in on you and the Doublemint twins. Actual nightmares.” 

“Ha,” Dean acknowledges with a wide grin, raising his own beer in Sam’s direction before taking a healthy sip. “Good times.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Sam otherwise ignores him and keeps talking. “It’s sick, I’m with you—” He stops abruptly, grimacing heavily and cracking his neck before rephrasing, Dean responding by making a face that he hopes indicates he’s glad about that. “I _agree_ with you completely on that. All I’m saying is, understandable squick regarding her hobbies is not a reason to avoid a hunt. This woman—if it is her, anyway, and I think that it is—she’s still a witch. She’s cursing people. And we don’t even know exactly _how_ , just that the people she’s affecting are being changed, physically. Some of them have even gone missing and the rest won’t go into details about what’s wrong. Just that whatever it is, it’s apparently humiliating and drastic enough that it’s keeping them from going back to their normal lives.”

Dean nods slowly, eyebrows knitting together in thought as he spins his beer against the table, nearly toppling it over in the process and making Sam scramble to protect his precious papers. “Absolutely no one will share _any_ inkling of what the curse actually _is?”_ Sam raises one hand in confused defeat and shakes his head no before going back to organizing his piles of crap. “Hmm.”

“I mean, we’re already here, and we know she’s in town,” Sam reasons, clearly thinking he’s being practical and logical, and Dean struggles to come up with a reason—any reason—that wouldn’t be the case, but Sam’s already clicking around on his laptop again before he can reply. “I read something on one of the forums she posts on. She said that she moved to Lawrence because of the stuff about us growing up here in the Supernatural books, I guess she thinks we’ll eventually come back? It’s really weird, kind of unnerving.” Sam pauses to check his watch. “Anyway, Cas should be back any minute from checking out that address. I sent him to the place the last couple was lured to.” 

“ _Anyway?_ Don’t ‘anyway’ me. That’s exactly my point, Sam. Something about this whole thing is hinky, I’m _telling_ you. My spidey senses are tingling, man. And what’s the point of all this, huh?” Dean persists, finally at least invested in the _why_ of it all, if he’s going to be forced into this hunt, like it or not. He jabs his pointer finger at the table, demanding Sam at least acknowledge his concerns before he goes all-in, putting his own ass on the line seemingly because Sam has witch-killing bullets burning a hole in his pocket. Isn’t _Sam_ supposed to be the level-headed one? The ‘think before you act’ guy? When the hell did Dean become the cautious voice of reason? Between beers, apparently, because here he is.

“These people she lured, they think they’re, what? Getting some couples counseling, right?” Dean leans forward across the table, motioning for Sam to fork over the handwritten list of victims they’d compiled and the notes on their corresponding accounts of what happened.

“Too good to be true couples counseling,” Sam corrects him, his eyebrows lifting as he passes over both the victim list and the printed-out Craigslist advertisement one of the vics had turned over to them. Even though he’s seen it before, Dean scans the ad carefully again, refreshing his memory while hoping to spark something new, to connect some of the dots that are staying frustratingly _just_ out of his reach. Unfortunately for him, that does not happen, and he looks up from the ad more confused than ever. 

“This thing—the witch—is offering a money-back guarantee on fixing _any_ romantic relationship in one session or less,” Dean muses out loud, snorting a small laugh at how ludicrous even just the ad itself is. He slaps the paper and shakes his head at Sam in disbelief. “I mean, you gotta admit, this is kind of their own fault, right? Who falls for this? Do these people also get their ice cream from creepy dudes in unmarked vans?” 

Sam just purses his lips and shrugs his shoulders, _no idea_. He drains the last of his beer and tips it into the wastebasket Dean had dragged over for that exact purpose. “People get desperate when it comes to relationship stuff,” he says, a little dubiously, and Dean snorts again, he can’t help it.

“Yea, like you’d know,” he scoffs and then immediately feels bad when Sam’s face falls. Not bad enough to apologize, though, because seriously, that shit is true. Whatever, he’ll buy his brother a nice bucket of kale and flavor-free dressing later, Sam’ll like that.

“I’m just saying, Dean,” Sam continues, and Dean’s pleased to see that he doesn’t actually seem fazed by his insensitive dig. “This is a case. Whatever the witch’s reasoning, whatever her motives, whatever her messed up side hobbies are—none of that matters, because she’s hurting people. My vote is that we find her and we stop her. Simple as that. I mean, maybe she’s harmless, or she doesn’t realize what she’s doing is unwanted. Wouldn’t be the first time. Bottom line is, either she’s willing to listen and knock-off the unsolicited hoo-doo, or we take her out with a bullet between the eyes. Everything else aside, it’s really an open and shut case. A milk run. I thought you liked those.” 

And really, Sam _is_ right. It’s _one_ (possibly misguided) asshole-slash-witch who _happens_ to have a pile of gross, incest-glorifying fanfiction to her name on the internet. Honestly, if she hadn’t been using the same screenname to solicit victims on Craigslist, they wouldn’t have even known about that part (and Dean wishes she hadn’t, really, he’s suffering) of her life at all. 

“Alright,” Dean agrees reluctantly, finishing up his own beer and dropping it in the bin beside Sam’s with an aggressive _clink._ “I’m in. Get your shit together, I’ll call Cas.”

After all, one witch against two of the best hunters this planet has to offer, plus an angel of the Lord? Sam was right. It _should_ have been a milk run. 

But it wasn’t. 

***

_They exited out the front door. They had no idea what they were in for._

Movie buff that he is, Dean’s always _loved_ the part in _The Boondock Saints_ where Willem Dafoe conducts and reconstructs the epic gun battle between the boys and Il Duce, just missing, of course, that Il Duce is one guy, not six different ones. 

_It was a fucking ambush._

Never in a million years had Dean _ever_ thought he’d be reliving that epic moment with him, Sam, and Cas, and a _middle-aged, bodice-ripper-loving, fan girl_ in the place of Il Duce. It would be insulting, if it wasn’t so bewildering (and okay, magical fire explosives makes it terrifying, Dean can admit that), if anyone is going to be Il Duce, it should definitely be _him._

_“There was a firefight!”_

Despite that, it’s hard not to picture that scene now, with the dramatics of their escape from inside the house, fire and debris soaring overhead, the threat of being gunned down so efficiently by such an unlikely foe shocking them into retreat, into _diving_ and hiding in a way that would normally make Dean embarrassed he wasn’t more on top of things. Hell, this sure _felt_ like six-on-one, not one on three. 

The unassuming, run-down little Craftsman shakes and roars with a blast from deep inside, the vibrations disturbing their steps, the flames creeping out quickly after them, like they’re being chased. The white-hot tendrils lick at already-warped window frames and across crumbling shutters as Castiel drags Dean, beat up and bloody, bodily out through the front door. Their heavy steps, combined with the way the fire is eating away at the house’s stability, rattle the porch threateningly.

“What did she _mean?!”_ Dean hollers as Castiel yanks him forcibly down the sagging porch stairs by the arm. “ _Saaaam!”_ He wrenches free and turns back towards the house which now has overt fire pouring from every single window. Determined and stubborn as ever, Dean gets as far as putting one booted foot back on the bottom step before something explodes inside, blasting a huge gust of superheated air and smoke out the front door and sending both Castiel and Dean flying, crashing hard and rough down onto the weed-cracked front walk. “No! _Sam!”_ Unable to scramble to his feet fast enough, Dean doggedly ignores both the strange stabbing pain in his abdomen and the all-over ache in his body from being thrown so viciously. 

“I’m right here,” Sam calls back, limping around the side of the burning house with a hand braced on the porch railing, pausing despite the scorching heat undoubtedly singeing the whole left side of his body. He’s covered in soot and ash, but Dean’s concerned big-brother gaze doesn’t pick up on any actual trauma—other than exhaustion and some minor cuts and bruises, anyway. Caught for breath, Sam’ chest heaves with exertion and he takes a full minute to cough into his elbow, but as soon as he’s managed to haul in a few lungfuls of fresh air, he nods at Dean and Cas. Stumbling away from the house, he leans for a moment on Dean’s shoulder before continuing on towards the car, increasingly steady as he walks, which makes Dean feel better, at least. “C’mon, we gotta get out of here,” Sam says, motioning for the two of them to follow. 

_No arguments there_ , except, “the witch?” Dean asks, sparing a glance back at where the house is almost fully consumed in flames now, and Sam shakes his head, coughing into his elbow again and clearing his throat repeatedly. Without a word, Dean digs around underneath his seat and produces a water bottle of questionable origin, but Sam takes it and drinks gratefully. 

“Lost her just inside the treeline,” Sam explains when he’s able, indicating the edge of the dense, evergreen-studded forest surrounding the house’s backyard, and every backyard on this side of the street. “Pretty sure these woods feed right into the National Park System about a half-mile that way,” he adds, eyeing Dean with concern as they all settle into their places in the car. 

“Geography lesson later,” Dean interrupts, throwing Baby into drive as the formerly distant sound of sirens suddenly gets uncomfortably close. There’s a lull in their debriefing as the three of them keep an eye out various windows, watching red lights appear at the other end of the street just before Dean’s able to turn left and disappear out of sight. Several tense minutes later, they all collectively seem to breathe a sigh of relief when no blue lights appear to follow. 

As soon as they’re in the clear, Sam tries to pick up where he left off. “With what happened back there—”

“What _did_ happen?” Castiel cuts him off, staring Dean down in the rearview mirror in a way that makes him feel extremely exposed, not as if _that’s_ anything new, not on its own. Cas and his _staring,_ Cas and his perpetual refusal to acknowledge personal fucking space. Nothing new, nothing that means anything at all except as a reminder that Cas is an _alien,_ something untouchable that for whatever godforsaken reason, Dean can’t force himself to stop wanting to _touch._

Still, Dean shivers a little under his gaze. Somehow, Castiel’s eyes on the back of his head feel stronger today, or maybe Dean is just an asshole, a creep, a dumbass in love with his best friend. His best friend who happens to be an _angel of the Lord—_ a perfect, celestial creature that probably isn’t even capable of _feeling_ that way about a human at all. _Fuck._ Ignoring the still-twinging (increasingly uncomfortable) pulling of his gut, Dean flexes his fingers against the steering wheel and navigates towards the motel. 

Secretly—and despite his earlier musings about wanting a break from Sam’s exclusively nerdy company—he almost wishes Castiel would decide now that he has an elsewhere to be. Flutter (or drive, these days) off leaving him and Sam to clean up this mess on their own. It’s not as if they can’t, though, admittedly, downsizing the team after such a hard hit might not be the smartest call Dean’s ever made. It’s just that, as hard as it is when Castiel leaves, sometimes, it’s even harder for Dean when he stays. So close, yet so perpetually out of reach, and Dean so eternally gone on him.

Sucking in a deep breath and blowing it out like _he’s_ the one with the internal emotional crisis, Sam raises his hands before dropping them with a loud _slap_ against his thighs. “Well,” he says carefully, pointedly staring out the front window and avoiding eye contact with Dean. “I think it’s safe to say that we’re about to find out exactly what this spell the witch has been whammying people with… does.” 

“Uh uh,” Dean replies, shaking his head _no_ vehemently, unable to completely disregard the feeling that Sam knows more than he’s letting on. “I don’t accept that. You scooped her book, right? And her gear?” Sam nods, pulling off the strap of the messenger bag he had draped over his shoulder. As he moves, a wave of pungent smoke wafts off of his clothing and into Dean’s nostrils, making him scrunch up his face in disgust. It’s not just _smoke,_ though—there’s a lingering scent of Sam’s body odor layered beneath it and _boy_ , that is _ripe._ “Blech,” Dean says, rubbing at his nose. Sam doesn’t seem to notice but Cas is in the backseat doing the same thing, so Dean’s pretty sure he’s not being dramatic. The sasquatch needs a damn shower and to maybe up his soap game, stop focusing on the hair so much. 

“Yea,” Sam replies distractedly, still oblivious to Dean’s judgment as he goes digging through the bag. “I grabbed everything I could from her little altar set-up right before she firebombed the place. You know, while you were—”

“I wasn’t anything,” Dean retorts, cutting him off before Sam can so much as speculate, ironically shifting in his seat as the lingering discomfort in his gut ratchets up a notch. “I had a cramp.” 

“In your _stomach?_ ” Sam eyes him warily, but Dean just grunts and flicks Baby’s blinker slightly more aggressively than is strictly necessary before turning down the street the motel is on. No one needs to know that said cramp hasn’t resolved yet, or that Dean might be refusing to admit, even to himself, that it’s possibly getting worse. A light sweat breaks out over his forehead and Dean fumbles for the climate controls, belatedly realizing that the heat is off. Confused, he cracks his window instead, the lukewarm breeze hardly relieving but it’s better than the stuffy, motionless air it replaces. 

_Is this a fever? Maybe the cramp was the start of a stomach bug or something._ That’s just what Dean needs, right in the middle of a case. No possible way _this_ can end badly, oh no. Maybe the witch will show up and try to finish what she started while he’s stuck on the toilet. Maybe he’ll get really lucky and Cas will witness him throwing up and shitting himself at the same time. At least then, maybe then he’ll be humiliated enough to let go of his ridiculous crush on Cas for good, out of sheer self-preservation. 

Dean realizes he’s been quiet and fidgety for too long, jumping to fill the silence before anyone gets wise and starts asking questions like _what the fuck is wrong with you?_ “So we regroup back at the motel and Sam, you work on figuring out what the hell is supposed to happen to me and Cas and how to stop it. Meanwhile, me and Cas will figure out a second plan of attack. Nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before, no need to get all worried and dramatic.” 

Dean knows he sounds confident, but secretly, he _is_ worried. Something doesn’t feel right in his own body, but like hell is he going to try and discuss that with Sam, or worse, _Cas._ See previous nightmare fodder, re: stomach flu, utter humiliation, et al. Dean may not consider himself the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s not an idiot, either. Whatever happened to those other victims was bad enough to send some of them into _hiding,_ to drive them from their own homes and away from their loved ones, and _none_ of them—not _one—_ wanted to admit to whatever it was that caused all of that. Everything else—the AWOL witch, the impending stomach flu, his weird inability to _not_ stare at Cas when he’s in the room—aside, Dean knows this isn’t looking good for him.

Ignoring the way his neck itches with the weight of Cas still staring him down from the backseat and the fact that Sam is determinedly _not_ looking at him at all, Dean reflects back on the events that went down inside the house. The more he tries to make sense of it all, to latch onto any little clue that might _explain,_ might shed some light on how to get him ( _them)_ out of this mess, the stranger it all seems. 

The whole thing was a trap, first of all. That much is clear enough. 

Courtesy of Cas’ recon, they’d been able to confirm that the witch was indeed occupying the house they suspected, the one where the last affected couple had been lured for their fateful “counseling” session. On his stakeout, Cas had seen someone moving around inside, had managed to get close enough to snap a photo that Sam then matched with a picture the witch had posted to one of her fandom blogs. It was definitely her.

Feeling confident about their weapons stockpile and their three-to-one odds, they’d ambushed her inside her own shitty home, no different than any other nest or lair they’d strode into armed and ready to do battle over the years. Except, this time, their target was ready and waiting, like a spider perched on a web she’d carefully woven, luring them in. Which made _them_ the unsuspecting flies, buzzing stupidly straight into her trap. There isn’t much Dean hates more than accidentally ending up a fly. 

Sneaking in through the front door, the house had been deadly quiet and dark, leading Dean to think they might actually retain the element of surprise. Just inside, Cas had branched off to the right almost immediately, leaving him and Sam to venture towards the back. Splitting up didn’t jive particularly well with Dean, but it wasn’t exactly the time or place to argue about it, so he kept his mouth shut and watched the angel disappear into what might have been a parlor. 

The house was an older-style Craftsman, so lots of walls and hallways, no open-plan architecture there. Which meant that it was easy enough for the witch to hide in the shadows of the set-back living room, only to come out and flip the lights on once Sam and Dean were already inside. If she had wanted to, she could have cursed them right away, they were as good as sitting ducks. With the closest doors to the outside at the witch’s back, she was blocking their best escape and therefore, the only thing to do was what they came for: force a confrontation.

Guns drawn, threats thrown down, they did exactly that.

Strangely, that was when things really started to take a turn. To Dean’s surprise, the witch seemed _happy_ to see them. So much so that she confessed outright to the cursings—no capture, no torture needed. In fact, she’d gleefully declared that not only was she cursing people, but she was doing it in the hopes of getting Dean and Sam’s attention, _mission fucking accomplished, “here you are!”_. Rambling on for a full minute about how she knew they’d come, how they wouldn’t regret “trusting” her, how she was going to _help_ them—Dean had mostly ignored her, glaring instead over at Sam with confusion and disbelief written all over his face. This bitch was _really_ cracked, and he wasn’t sure if he should feel some type of way about offing someone _that_ crazy, clear threat to humanity or otherwise. 

Now, as he drives, Dean can’t help but feel a little bit dirty just thinking back on the way she’d spoken about him and Sam. All this weird stuff, like a secret language, almost. _“Soulmates in the Impala,”_ she’d crowed, and _“Dean has two pillows!”_ before launching into some tangent about how Sam’s old girlfriend Jess Moore having the same birthday as Dean meant that Sam secretly wanted to fuck _him_. There was definitely more, but Dean couldn’t say what other garbage she spewed because he tuned the rest out, vomit-inducing lunacy that it was. 

They’d done their best to reason with her, really, they had. Although, Dean’s helpful contribution of, “You _do_ know that we’re brothers, right?” hadn’t landed. Common sense, apparently, isn’t all that common.

“True love transcends all societal taboos and social constructs,” the witch had said earnestly, moving to mess with her books and magical items spread haphazardly across the table in the middle of the room, and Dean had to stick his fist in his mouth so that he didn’t upchuck right there. 

“Lady, we’re literally telling you that you’re off the reservation,” he’d pushed, waving his gun around for good measure, and Sam had reached out a hand to indicate Dean should back off, which didn’t garner the reaction either of them intended.

“Oh,” the witch had swooned. “ _There,_ that’s it. _Subtext,”_ she’d enthused, an eyebrow raised suggestively even as she lifted a hand, swirl of purple magic materializing and curling threateningly just above her palm. “This is _so Flowers in the Attic._ So sweet, so protective,” she crooned. “There ain’t no you if there ain’t no him, Sam! Always sacrificing for each other, I just _love_ the way you’re in love. It’s okay, I understand why you hide. Not everyone is as accepting as I am.” 

“Like f—” Dean’s curse had been cut off by the witch raising her arm and hurling the spell dramatically in his and Sam’s direction. Harsh, obscure wording spilled gutturally from her mouth as the purple fireball blazed a sparking, smoky trail through the air. To make things worse, right as she acted, Cas had come crashing through a side door in the room. Diving forward _just_ in time to block the spell from hitting Sam dead-on, Cas took the brunt of the impact and as such, went flying too. 

That would have been a relief to Dean, would have undoubtedly had him feeling some type of way towards Cas (more than usual). That is, if he had been aware of it happening. Unfortunately, Dean had been too busy at the time to worry about what Sam and Cas were doing. “ _Busy,”_ being the simplest way to describe being hurled across the room as the part of the spell meant for him landed; whacking Dean squarely across the chest like a golf club connecting with a ball. 

“ _NO!”_ From his dizzied place on the floor, still half-slumped against the wall that broke his fall, Dean heard the witch howl in fury. Dean blinked, trying to clear his vision; the hit he’d taken to the head had him watching two Sams blurrily scrambling to again train their witch-killing gun on the extremely distraught incest-fetishist. “You ruin _everything,”_ she was screaming at Cas, angrily conjuring another ball of magic, this one bright orange and not nearly as hard to identify in her palm. _Fire, and lots of it._

Lifting his throbbing head in time to see a dazed Cas struggling up off of the ground while holding the side of his own face, Dean glanced helplessly between the two still-standing members of Team Free Will. He moved his hand over to the wall to brace himself, hoping to stand back up just as Sam took a chance and fired his gun. Shit luck—the witch deflected the bullet easily into the wall with the hand that wasn’t conjuring a bonfire out of thin air. “Leave the brothers _alone,_ ” she screamed.

As if things weren’t bad enough, Dean’s hand slipped from the wall as a whole new set of problems abruptly arose in his abdomen. “ _Arrrgh!_ ” Dean had cried out, his stomach suddenly cramping like he’d gone and crammed four McDoubles and an assload of fries in there. Except, somehow, the cramping felt _lower_ than usual, _what the fuck?_

“Dean!” Castiel had called back, sounding both worried and pained, but when Dean looked over, the angel was bent in half as well, grunting and hissing and not, apparently, coming to his immediate rescue. 

Clearly recognizing that they were all in way over their heads, Sam tried to stall or maybe reason with the witch, Dean recognized a backtrack when he saw one. Hazy and queasy, he was in too much pain to do much more than that, though. His body feeling like it might birth that creature from _Alien_ at any moment, Dean simply groaned and curled in on himself where he lay on the dirty hardwood floor. “We can talk about this,” Sam tried from somewhere to his left, presumably still leveraging the gun in the witch’s direction even though it didn't seem to be working as any kind of leverage at all. 

“You’re supposed to be balls deep in your brother right now,” the witch cried out, impressively distressed, before focusing her rage on Castiel once more. “No one _likes_ you!” she’d screamed at the unsteady angel, hurling the firebomb carelessly in his direction and then stomping her feet and crying hysterically when he managed to dive away. From his place on the floor, all Dean could really do was blink and groan and watch the scene unravel from ninety degrees in the wrong direction. As the fire caught easily onto the fringe of a dusty-looking sofa pushed up against the far wall, Castiel neatly dodged another bomb before tuck and rolling towards Dean. 

Once by his side, Castiel stood up easily and yanked Dean along with him, wrapping an arm aggressively around his waist and planting his feet so that the addition of Dean’s weight didn’t send them tumbling back to the floor. 

That—and a pair of sharp, blue eyes boring unflinchingly into his own—was all Dean really managed to see of what amounted to a very messy and uncoordinated boss battle, since he was still pretty dizzy and the flames were quickly climbing the walls of the house. Dean’s mind was fuzzy and he didn’t even think to resist as Castiel started pulling him determinedly towards the front door. Weirdly, in that moment, Castiel felt stronger than usual, or maybe that was just the concussion, but Dean let himself be led, _wanted_ Castiel to lead him. It was only when they were halfway down the porch steps that he even realized Sam wasn’t with them or behind them and reacted accordingly.

From his seat behind the wheel of Baby, Dean shakes his head, still trying to clear the cobwebs, though the house and the whole event is now far in the rearview mirror. He must have hit his head pretty damn hard to react like that, to just leave Sam behind and follow Cas like some kind of trained puppy... _Bizarre._

“Hey,” Dean pipes up as he pulls the Impala into the motel parking lot, stomach still aching (though not as bad as it did when the spell first hit). The pain is just beginning to spark the nerve tracts down into his hips and thighs, making both of his legs throb. It’s _seriously_ unpleasant, and Dean’s not entirely sure how much longer he’s going to be able to stay stoic about it. “Cas, can’t you just mojo us better? You know, do your angel-healing thing?” He throws the car into park a little less gently than usual before draping an arm over the back of his seat. 

It’s a mistake. Despite the pain he’s desperately trying to ignore, Dean can’t help but notice that Castiel is looking _really_ good today. The post-fight rumpled thing is definitely working for him, and Dean licks his lips reflexively, eyes traveling up and then down Cas’ suit-clad body. There’s a flush to his face that normally isn’t there, no matter how much Castiel exerts himself in a fight. It makes his cheeks look rugged and kissable, especially contrasted against the perpetual scruff of his chin, and Dean can’t help imagining dragging his lips from rough to smooth. And Cas’ hair—that, too looks _extra_ mussed, dark and sexy and tousled, practically _begging_ for Dean’s fingers to—

“No,” Castiel says shortly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Wrinkles appear in his brow as he frowns down at his hands folded in his lap, and Dean absolutely does not find the expression adorable. _Absolutely not._ “I—” Castiel starts and then stops, licking his lips before turning his head to stare out the window as Dean and Sam exchange concerned glances. “No, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that,” he says finally, before abruptly throwing open the door and stepping out of the car. “I need to urinate.” 

“You need to… Cas!” With an arm wrapped securely around his own abdomen to apply counter-pressure to the increasingly dire _situation_ down there, Dean follows his friend out of the car, Sam close behind and fumbling in his pockets for the room key. “You don’t pee,” Dean says pointedly as he catches up to Castiel, Dean’s free hand on his coat sleeve preventing Castiel from turning away from him. 

“I _do_ when I’m _human,_ ” Castiel snaps in frustration, snatching the newly-produced key from Sam’s hand and opening the door for himself. Without further explanation, Castiel stalks into the bathroom and slams the door, leaving the walls rattling and the brothers staring after him in confusion and for one of them, a warring mix of other emotions, too. 

“He’s _human?_ ” Dean echoes in disbelief as he wanders inside a lot more slowly. “Like, from the curse, I’m assuming.” He looks to Sam for confirmation and finds him already dumping the messenger bag’s contents out on the wobbly dining table, but Sam just shrugs. Dean shuts the door, rougher than necessary, before rounding on Sam again. “What does this mean? C’mon, Sammy, you gotta have some idea.” A sharper flash of pain right above his groin has Dean flinching, but just as he’s been doing since they stumbled broken and bruised out of the burning building, Dean shoves it down and ignores it. “Is it hot in here? I’m gonna turn the air on, it feels hot.” 

“I don’t really know, Dean,” Sam replies distractedly, settling down and digging into the books. “Give me a few minutes to look over this stuff and hopefully, we’ll know more.” 

Leaving Sam to do his nerd thing (and barely resisting the urge to tap on the bathroom door and see if Cas is okay in there— _only_ because of his concern about the curse, of course), Dean wanders over to the thermostat attached to the wall. He’s disappointed to see that the dials are covered with plastic and the lock to get to them requires a key. “Damn thing’s busted. Says it’s sixty-five in here,” he announces, annoyed and pulling at the collar of his t-shirt, which suddenly feels stiflingly constrictive. “Feels like friggin’ eighty-two.” 

That gets Sam’s attention and he looks up from under his hair, eyes narrowing with worry. “I think it’s plenty cool in here, Dean,” Sam tells him, right as another sharp pang of pain slashes its way through Dean’s unsuspecting abdomen. This time, the discomfort is bad enough that Dean can’t simply ignore it, forcing him to bend at the waist and brace an arm against the wall until it passes. “Dean?” Sam questions, but Dean just groans a little, shakes his head against his arm, and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping Sam will take the hint and leave him alone. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Dean barks, as another wave of pain takes him by surprise _and_ takes him to his knees. The bathroom door suddenly swings open right beside him, and that’s just great, because that’s exactly what Dean needs, Castiel witnessing him like this. It’s not the stomach flu on the toilet, but it’s close.

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice loaded with concern, and _shit, why_ does Cas’ voice sound _so damn good_ right now?Reflexively, protectively, Dean clutches at his stomach where the pain has settled into a sort of constant churning without any bouts of relief, letting out a pained little moan as he sinks forward and rests his head against the dirty motel room wall. The discomfort is bad enough that he has to breathe through it, that he doesn’t put up so much as a token resistance when Castiel’s arms thread underneath his own. Somehow, even human, Castiel’s able to lift him up like he weighs nothing, arms wrapping protectively around his back. 

“Dean, walk with me,” Castiel instructs, his tone brooking no argument, and while the world is hazy, Dean can only nod, biting his lip and accepting Castiel’s support as he stumbles haltingly in the direction of the closest double bed. 

It’s hard for Dean to really focus on any one specific thought that wafts across his mind through the relentless onslaught of pain, but for whatever reason, Dean’s brain has decided that this is the perfect time to point out how _good_ Castiel smells. Despite everything, wrapped up in Castiel’s arms, Dean is finding it nearly impossible to ignore. 

It’s not as if this is the first time he’s had these intrusive thoughts, though it might be the most inconvenient. The thing is, Dean knows he can’t just blame a possible head injury for the way he automatically zeros in on it, even today, even _now_. He _knows_ that he fixates on Castiel too much in general, notices things about him that other people never would. The way the corner of his mouth just barely ticks up when he’s amused, for starters. The crinkles next to his eyes when Dean tells a stupid joke and Cas is trying his best to be serious, but they give him away. The adorable lock of hair just behind his ear that curls forward when it gets damp—that usually only happens when they get rained on, since Cas doesn’t sweat or shower. 

Unless he’s _human,_ which he apparently is right now, and Dean can _smell_ it. The faintest traces of sweat, anxiety—something else, and how the hell can a person _smell_ anxious? How the hell can _Dean_ recognize that “anxious” has a smell?! _Maybe it’s an angel thing,_ he wonders woozily as Castiel lays him down on the bed, pulls off his boots, and tucks him in under the covers. Cas moves to pull away but Dean is _messed up,_ couldn’t begin to voice the reasons why, but he just… doesn’t want Castiel to go. Can’t _bear_ to let him walk away. The need is shockingly desperate and Dean doesn’t have the wherewithal to think too hard about what he’s doing before fisting a hand in the front of Cas’ dress shirt. 

It’s only then—fingers curled tightly into cotton, brushing just _barely_ against warm skin underneath—Dean abruptly realizes that Cas is missing over half of his normal clothing. 

Blinking and trying his best to clear the fog rolling through his head, Dean tries to make sense of the Castiel that’s looming over him, looking so deliciously undone. On second thought, it’s not actually _half_ of his clothing _,_ not exactly, but he is trench and suit jacket-free, the top few buttons of his collared shirt undone, tie nowhere to be seen. And his sleeves—they’re rolled all the way to his elbow, exposing two _very_ attractive, well-muscled forearms that—

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Dean moans, gritting his teeth as another wave of knife-like pain slices through his insides, forcing him to relinquish his hold on Castiel and curl in on himself. Even then, as he’s kicking around in agony on the mattress, Dean _hates_ to let go, resents that it’s the sheets his fingers dig into and clench around, and not _Cas’_ very rumpled and very mouthwateringly-scented shirt. 

Distantly from somewhere to his right, Dean hears Castiel make a noise, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a _growl._ But that can’t be right. Never in all the years he’s known Castiel has he heard the man _growl,_ he’s not a _bear, what the fuck?_

“Sam,” Dean grits out, panting around the pain and flexing hands against the bedsheets while Castiel tenses next to him, clearly working hard to hold himself back and Dean—Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he wants. His body is _screaming_ for something he’s been fighting for _years_ to shove down into the back of his mind, to _never_ even _consider_ admitting out loud, and somehow, he’s _this fucking close_ to just reaching out and taking it. A part of him wishes Castiel would _go,_ would just get the fuck out of here before Dean humiliates himself, but the fact is, Castiel hasn’t moved and somehow, that feels like a comfort. 

You know what? Dean’s just not going to look at that too closely, at least not until they figure out what exactly this curse is and how to get rid of it, because it _fucking hurts_. “Sam, what the hell is going on?” he demands, rubbing his forehead against the pillow to blot the sweat that’s gathered there. Sam doesn’t answer, not to him, anyway.

Like a knife slashing a hole in the very fabric of existence and everything that’s keeping Dean _remotely_ sane and stable at the moment, Castiel’s presence disappears from his side and leaves a gaping maw behind. The loss leaves Dean physically _and_ emotionally bereft and he has to _fight_ the urge to reach out and grab for him, has to clench his teeth to keep from flat-out begging for Castiel to come back. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?! As he squeezes his eyes shut and twists around in the sheets, Dean can hear Sam’s voice speaking too softly for him to hear. That just pisses Dean off more, but he’s not exactly in any shape to get up and complain. 

After several too-long moments of whispered back and forth, Castiel finally replies to Sam with his voice at normal volume. “That’s not possible,” he says, and Dean forces one tacky eye open, determined to get someone to pay attention to him now. 

“What,” he rasps, voice cracking and sticking in his dry throat. He licks his lips and tries again, but before he can, Castiel is back at his side, holding out a glass of water. After a sloppy, slurped sip that dribbles as much down his chin as the inside of his throat, Dean feels slightly better, though that’s relative when he looks up and finds Castiel’s concerned blue eyes staring back. They’re endless, drawing Dean in and drowning him and he—

“Dean?” Castiel questions softly and Dean shakes his head, blinking heavily several times before sucking in a deep breath and centering himself as best he can. Castiel’s kneeling now which puts his chest, his _neck_ only inches from Dean’s face as he helps him relax back down before putting the glass of water aside. Having him in such close proximity pulls the rug out from under Dean, makes him forget everything he was going to ask only moments prior. Being next to Castiel again is _dizzying,_ intoxicating, and Dean doesn’t know if he wants off this weirdo merry-go-round, or if he never wants it to stop _._

Because being next to Castiel is also gratifying, somehow, and it feels _right_ in a very unexplainable yet undeniable way. It feels _safe_ and _important_ and he smells like— _honeysuckle?_ Dean doesn’t even know what fucking _honeysuckle_ smells like, just that it’s definitely _this._ There’s something else in there too, vanilla, maybe? And another layered note underneath that, something both sweet and tart—cherry? Hell, Dean’s always liked cherry baked into a pie, but on _Cas’ skin…_

“I’m good,” Dean lies, managing what has to be his most unconvincing half-smile ever. The pain in his abdomen seems to be fading now, but there’s an equally unfamiliar feeling stirring down in the depths of his stomach that he’s not sure he wants to explore right this second, because reasons. Whatever is causing that, it must have to do with the spell, and that can’t mean anything good.

Not to mention, he still feels feverish, and Sam’s _way_ overdue for explaining why exactly that is. With the pain mostly abated, Dean’s able to think a little more clearly, avoiding Castiel’s concerned gaze and propping himself up on his elbows to focus on his brother instead. Once he’s there, Dean motions for Sam to get on with it while Sam looks back warily, eyes darting between his and Castiel’s faces. Cas, for his part, never once takes his eyes off of Dean. He knows, because he can feel them _burning_ like an open flame into the side of his face. 

When the silence in the room stretches on to where it’s uncomfortable, Dean watches as Sam seems to weigh his options internally before ultimately giving in. Clearing his throat, the younger Winchester carefully puts down the book in his hands before folding his arms across his chest and sighing. “Dean, are you still warm?” he asks hesitantly. “Like, feverish?”

“Just a little,” Dean lies again, since in all honesty, he’s beginning to feel like he’s literally burning from the inside out and he’s relatively sure it must be showing in his face. Hey, he’s got a tough-guy rep to protect, “Unbothered” is Dean Winchester’s middle name. “Wait, hold up. Why the hell is this only happening to me? Cas got whammied, too, I saw him. How come his biggest problem is a functioning bladder and really nice-smelling sweat?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Cas’ brow furrow as he mouths the words “nice-smelling sweat” silently to himself, sniffing after his armpit in obvious confusion. If all of his brain cells weren’t currently occupied being worried about whatever is going down inside his own body, Dean might have been able to admit that the reaction is seriously adorable. 

“Actually,” Sam corrects, as if it fuckin’ matters, “I got hit, too. Cas jumped in front of me, but I felt it. The spell hit us all.” He raises his eyebrows and fixes his gaze on Cas for a long moment, but doesn’t connect the dots for Dean beyond that.

“Alright,” Dean replies slowly, not understanding but starting to feel extremely annoyed that Sam won’t just get on with sharing whatever it is he thinks he’s protecting Dean from having to deal with. Irritatingly, Cas seems to know, since his expression has shifted from one of concern to one of pure pity, and _oh no,_ Dean doesn’t like that one bit. “Dude, out with it,” he demands, struggling to sit a little more upright against the sweaty sheets and to _not_ lean into Castiel’s neck just to score a giant whiff of that cherry-smell again. “I have a right to know whatever that bitch did to me.” 

With a heaving sigh, Sam sinks back down into his chair and runs a hand through his too-long-for-hunting hair. Someone could fucking pull it, and if Dean weren’t currently dealing with the fallout of being victimized by some random Big Bad himself, he’d say so. “I know. I know you do,” Sam says, flipping the book open again and very clearly stalling for time.

“Sam,” Dean snaps, the distracting scent of Castiel shifting on his heels next to him threatening to steal his attention away permanently. He could really use a bucket of cold water over the head before he faces whatever bad news Sam’s got to share, but he’ll settle for Sam getting the hell on with it. 

“It’s a—a love spell, of sorts,” Sam finally blurts out. “Don’t shoot the messenger, alright? ‘True Mates’ is the literal translation, but I—”

“True _what?_ ” Dean sputters, the heat on his face and the weird sensation twisting in his abdomen not coming close to stopping him from sitting bolt upright and glaring wide-eyed at Sam, panicked. Castiel makes a disgruntled sound beside Dean as the sheets pool around his waist, but he can’t focus on that right now. “What the fuck does that mean, Sam?” 

“Relax, Dean,” Sam replies, holding up a pacifying hand in Dean’s direction. “Like, seriously, you need to relax. You really shouldn’t get any more worked up.” Dean just gapes, spreading his hands in question, and Sam winces before looking back at Dean pleadingly. “Don’t ask me to explain why, not yet. Just trust me that you aren’t going to like the answer, and that calming down is definitely what you want to do right now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, blowing out a stilted breath and rubbing both of his hands over his face. _How bad can this be?_ Dean wonders, and then just as quickly flashes back on the witch’s _inclinations,_ the possibilities of what this curse might be designed to do chilling him to the bone, despite the roiling heat. “So we all got hit. Just… spit it out, Sam. You and I aren’t going to—?” 

“No!” Sam declares vehemently, shaking his head as if he thinks he can dislodge the images Dean’s put there by whipping it back and forth hard enough. “No,” he repeats, looking disgusted. “I mentioned that the spell hit me for a reason— _not_ that, though.” 

“Small miracles,” Dean mutters and Castiel grunts. Turning his head to glance at his friend sideways, Dean narrows his eyes. Still kneeling to the left of Dean’s bed, Castiel’s expression gives nothing away, and that grinds Dean’s gears, just a little. The angel’s always been a bit laconic, but he usually has more to say than the series of animalistic noises he’s been offering of late. At least when it comes to cases and Dean’s well-being, anyway. “You alright, buddy?” Dean asks, but Castiel just pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn’t reply except to cock his head in Sam’s direction. _Fine, message received._

“The _reason,_ ” Sam annunciates, trying to regain Dean’s attention, “is that as far as I can tell, I was unaffected. Which is weird, because the witch totally meant for the spell to affect you and me, Dean, but it didn’t, and I’m pretty sure I know why. This girl—she really believed you and I are soulmates.” Sam pauses to make a face like he’s tasted something bad, which Dean is fairly certain is directly reflected on his own mug, before continuing. “This spell should only _work_ if that’s the case—if two people are already in love and _meant_ to be together. If they are, it’ll change them—both of them—physically, to be more compatible with each other.”

The pause Sam takes here is lengthy, but Dean’s just not connecting the dots. He shifts to sit more comfortably on the bed and presses his brother for more information. “Change… change how?” 

“Well,” Sam continues, his tone calculating and his fingers picking worriedly at the pages of the book. “One person would become the Alpha, and one would become the Omega. It’s like a… secondary gender designation.”

“Oh, hell no,” Dean says, attempting to cut Sam off and stuffing fingers in his ears. He gets it now, he should have just listened when Sam said he didn’t want to know. Sam was right—Dean doesn’t want to know _any_ of this. Pointer fingers in his ear canals, Dean scores about five blissful seconds of white-noise silence before Castiel’s in his space again, his physical presence _massive_ as he wraps two searing-hot palms around his wrists and tugs until Dean’s fingers come free. He’d complain, he _definitely_ wants to, wants to shove Cas off and tell him to get the hell out of his face but—

 _Cas’ hands, Jesus. Cas’ hands around his wrists, controlling him, moving Dean where he wants him and oh, why does that feel so good?_ Dean’s momentarily distracted, waylaid by the parted pout of Castiel’s mouth, completely lost as he stares up into his gorgeous face, watching the way Castiel’s lips part and his pink tongue darts out to—

“ _Fine,_ what does it _mean?”_ Dean grits out, using his last iota of strength and sanity to yank his arms away from Castiel and force himself to refocus on Sam. He snaps his fingers a couple of times, like _Sam_ is the one who’s been off in _la-la land_ just because Cas is in his general vicinity. _Yes, good. Make Sam the problem, here._ “C’mon, Sam, out with it. I don’t wanna hear it, you don’t wanna say it, but if shit is going down inside my body, I guess neither of us have a choice.”

From across the room, Dean can almost _hear_ Sam’s reluctant swallow, can definitely see as he turns a light shade of green, but like the trooper he is, Sam nods and tracks over the open page in his book, index finger leading the way. 

“Yea, okay.” He clears his throat and reads aloud. “A human male’s transformation into that of a male omega will likely be painful, as it requires the growth of new organs and tissue, and the rearrangement of existing structures. Once the transformation is complete, the male omega will be capable of producing ‘slick’ or self-lubrication, and will very likely go into heat immediately, especially if their True Mate is nearby. The human male’s transition into an Alpha male is not nearly as painful or taxing on the body, as the only major physiologic change they will undergo is the capacity for knotting and increased semen production. The process should be essentially painless. Both designations will develop the ability to scent, scent-bond, and blood-bond through traditional mating bites, if so desired.”

Blinking in complete confusion, Dean’s mouth drops open, snapping closed again as he tries to wrap his mind around what Sam’s just said and despite the fact that he’s not sure he even _knows_ half of those words. Failing that, he leans forward and waits for Sam to make eye contact, which he does, albeit reluctantly, and with a very red face. When he’s sure that he has Sam’s undivided attention, Dean speaks slowly and deliberately. “What. The fuck. Does all that mean?” 

“Don’t make me spell it out,” Sam pleads, slumping back into his chair and hiding behind his hand.

“Oh. Oh, you’re gonna spell it out,” Dean replies, nodding insistently. “And then we’re gonna find this bitch—

“Witch,” Castiel corrects absently.

“—and kill her. And then bring her back to life, and kill her again. Maybe more than once, depending on what you say next.” 

Sam lifts his hands and drops them back down helplessly. “What do you want me to say, Dean? First of all, you can’t hunt right now. You’re going into _heat,_ whether you believe it or not. I mean, you’re right about killing her, and, you know what? I’m going to do that.” 

“I know that I did not just hear you compare me to a female dog,” Dean shoots back angrily, nearly ripping a hole in the sheets from the way he’s worrying them between his hands. _Helpless_ doesn’t begin to cover how he feels, and _helpless_ is not an emotion Dean Winchester is interested in entertaining. Ever.

“Actually,” Castiel interjects again, but thankfully for everyone, he stops when Sam shoots him a wide-eyed warning look and shakes his head vehemently _no._

Presumably before anyone can come up with a good idea why he shouldn’t, Sam stands and grabs his jacket from where it’s slung over the back of his chair. He gathers up a couple of the books and some of the residual supplies from the witch’s original spell. “I kill her, all of this ends and the spell should reverse. That goes for you _and_ all of the couples she cursed to get us here. I just need to figure out where she is, sneak up on her, get in _one_ good shot. I can do this, Dean,” Sam says, his tone thick with a level of self-assuredness Dean doesn’t usually see on his brother. Sam is also smart enough to preempt Dean’s arguments, cutting him off before he can so much as protest. “You have to stay here, you _have_ to fuck Cas if you don’t want to die, and I don’t _want_ to know any of this, I really don’t.” Sam shakes his head and fishes the keys to the Impala out of Dean’s jacket pocket.

“Hey,” Dean protests weakly. “You can’t just—”

“Trust me, Dean,” Sam says wearily, with one hand already wrapped around the doorknob. “You’re not going to want me here in another half an hour and I can’t—I just can’t, with the explanations. Cas knows what’s going on, and I’ll leave the book on A/B/O designations so you can look up any questions you might have. All I can say is, if I were you, I wouldn’t fight it. The lore doesn’t go into a _ton_ of detail, but… From what I can tell, the people who refused to accept the change and what it meant for them died pretty horribly, and in a lot of pain.” 

“Our missing people?” Dean questions, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly snapping together in his head.

“Maybe,” Sam agrees, pulling the motel room door open and edging outside. As he does, Dean flinches back from the light, pulling the sheet up and over his body like someone might glance inside the door and _see_ him and _know_ what perverted thing he’s going through, just from looking. “And everyone else who wouldn’t talk about what _exactly_ the curse did to them?” 

“Oh, god,” Dean whispers, practically feeling the color draining from his face. “Sam, go put a bullet in her head.” 

“On it,” Sam replies, the door already slamming shut in his wake before Dean or Castiel can so much as say goodbye. Distraught, Dean buries his face in his hands, thinking back over everything Sam has said and realizing very abruptly that they glossed over one _very_ significant, very important part of this particular curse.

 _“This spell should only work if that’s the case,”_ Sam had said. _“If two people are already in love and meant to be together."_

But that would mean… 

Gathering his wits, Dean drops his hands from where they’re covering his face and wipes the moisture gathering on his palms off on his thighs. He catches sight of Castiel, now lingering forlornly over by Sam’s vacated spot at the table, and misses him by his side. Dean knows that he should probably worry—probably _wonder,_ at least, how much of this sudden, amplified attraction to Castiel _is_ the curse and how much falls under “already in love”, but he’s hot and uncomfortable and _Cas—_ Cas has the stupid book clutched to his chest like a security blanket, and he’s looking back at Dean mournfully. 

“Cas,” Dean starts, and then stops, because what the hell is there to say? 

“I know you don’t really want to touch me,” Castiel says softly and _what?_ Dean raises his eyebrows, not that Castiel notices, busy nursing his shame-spiral as he is. “I know that you don’t… _feel_ that way about me, about men in general.” He looks away, clearly ashamed and Dean is struck, having to confront for the first time, live and in person, how _badly_ he’s gotten this all wrong for Castiel to think— _feel—_ the way that he does. He’s always thought he was too obvious, that Castiel kept his distance because Dean’s emotions were written all over his face and as an angel he didn’t— _couldn’t—_ but now.. _. How_ could Dean have been so mistaken? “This is… this must be my fault, Dean,” Castiel continues, sounding completely miserable and broken. “And I cannot apologize enough. My feelings—they must have confused the spell, and our connection, our bond—” 

That brings Dean up short, and maybe it’s the brand new hormones coursing through his system or maybe it’s the way Castiel’s scent lingers on the sheets where his body brushed up against them, Dean has no fucking clue. Whatever it is, it’s making him a little dizzy, and he’ll just go ahead and blame that for what he says next. “Your feelings?” he asks weakly and Castiel’s shoulders heave as he sighs with his whole body. “Your feelings for me,” Dean clarifies.

Castiel doesn’t answer, just clutches the book tighter and stares determinedly at a dark, suspicious stain down on the moss-green carpet. 

It’s difficult for Dean to think, his body really starting to burn now, not just his face but _inside,_ like a bonfire stoked to full-height in his stomach and working its way outward. In a wayward attempt to brace himself on his knees, Dean dips his head forward and loses balance, winding up with a nose-full of above-referenced sheets with Castiel’s scent on them and _whoa._ This time when Dean inhales, there’s a physical response to the nostalgic-pleasant emotional one, and suddenly, Dean understands what Sam meant and why his face was so red when he said the words “self-lubricating.” 

Thinking about Castiel, smelling his scent, it makes Dean _leak._ In a place that _no man should ever fucking leak._ Horrified, Dean forgets momentarily that he’s not alone in the room and reaches down into his jeans, pushing his hand in between his legs, unsure what exactly he’s going to come up with as he dips his fingers down past his balls and into his butt crack before pulling them out. Relievedly (or maybe not, considering), they come up covered with a clear, slightly sweet-smelling fluid and _oh god, he—he’s wet._ Like a _girl, wet. Self-lubricating, holy fuck._

A strangled noise from across the room catches Dean’s attention and when he jolts abruptly back to reality (slick-covered fingers still raised in mid-air), Castiel has dropped the book and is holding onto the back of one of the wooden chairs like his life depends on it. If he still had his superhuman angel strength, Dean’s pretty sure it would have crumbled to splinters in his hands long ago. As it is, Castiel is _fixated_ on Dean’s fingers, his own knuckles white as snow against the dark wood of the chair as he physically holds himself back. Unable to help himself, Dean follows an instinct, rubbing his wet thumb over the tip of his index finger, and there it is again, Castiel _whimpers._

“Dean, please don’t do this,” he gasps with great difficulty, forearms straining and isn’t _that_ a pretty picture? “We have to—if you don’t want me, we need to stay apart. You should lock yourself… in the bathroom.” Just saying those words appears to cause Castiel physical pain, sweat beading on his knitted brow which Dean can’t help but find fascinating, mostly because he has _zero_ intention of locking himself anywhere. 

He should put Castiel out of his misery, he _should,_ but Dean’s never claimed to be a perfect man (or even a good one), and hell, he’s the one _self-lubricating_ right now so if he’s got questions, Dean’s damn well going to ask them. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks curiously, even though his body is practically screaming for him to just close the space between the two of them and find out for himself.

“Rut,” Castiel manages through teeth clenched together so hard it must be painful. He rocks up and back on the balls of his feet, still hunched over and clutching the back of that chair like it’s the edge of a cliff he’s already gone over. “Rut,” he repeats. “The alpha equivalent to an omega’s heat.” 

“Uh, right,” Dean acknowledges, but his needy body isn’t so interested in this minutiae and his mind is already back on Castiel’s earlier declaration. Sensing that they’re running out of time, Dean forgoes his normal bullshit and cuts right to the heart of the matter, clearing his throat and waiting until Cas looks up to speak. “So, you have feelings for me? That’s what you’re saying? It’s not just… you know, the spell? Or because you’re human?” 

Immediately going statue-still, Castiel doesn’t answer but he doesn’t deny it, either, so Dean forges ahead, licking his lips and not missing the way Castiel’s eyes track the motion, _encouraging._ “Only asking because I thought angels, you know.” He pauses to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re not exactly big with the whole ‘range of human emotions’ thing. ‘Specially the kind of emotions that have a _physical_ component, if you catch my drift.” Castiel’s responding silence hangs heavy in the air between them and this may be the stupidest, most ridiculous conversation Dean’s ever had. Here he is, trying to discuss _feelings_ with his own slick drying on his fingers and thighs and his body screaming to be touched, what the _fuck_ kind of hellacious curse is this, really? 

He _could_ just jump Cas—it’s pretty damn clear at this point that Cas would let him, would welcome it even. But no, Dean’s picked _this_ moment to make his transition into chick-dom complete. He can self-lubricate _and_ he’s choosing to share his feelings over getting laid. Let no one ever say that Dean Winchester does things the easy way, oh no. 

“I’m _sorry,_ ” Castiel blurts out, finally shattering the silence and hunching further over the chair. If he bends any lower, his head is going to be between his knees, and Dean can’t say that he minds that mental image. “I never meant for you to find out.” 

There’s another long, protracted pause, or maybe it just feels that way because Dean _still_ can’t believe what he’s hearing, needs more than a few seconds to process what it all means and to figure out how to reply without sounding like an idiot. When he finally gets it, when it _clicks,_ there’s nothing else to say. “Cas, come here,” he murmurs, tossing the sheets aside and getting fully up on his knees.

But Castiel just shakes his head, holds onto the chair tighter and won’t look Dean in the eyes anymore. “You don’t understand,” he mumbles. “I _cannot_ be close to you right now, Dean. These—these _feelings,_ I’m not sure I can—” As Dean watches, still kneeling on the bed, Castiel shudders and squeezes his eyes shut. Damn, and Dean thought _he_ was the King of Self-Flagellation. “This curse doesn’t _change_ anything,” Castiel insists, even as the fire inside Dean starts to superheat his skin, making him feel like his clothing is aluminum foil, roasting him inside of it.

“Cas, I—” Dean starts but has to stop, dropping forward onto his hands to try and breathe through the heat and now the bubbling arousal sending snaking tendrils through his veins. His grip on sanity, on the sliver of coherence he has left is fading, the bizarre, unprecedented _want_ beginning to cloud his ability to think at all and he just— _Alright, that’s it._ _Enough is enough._

“ _Whew._ ” Dean sighs in relief as he yanks off his t-shirt and flannel in one go, tossing them to the floor beside the bed. The action must disturb the air, sending waves of Dean’s scent floating across the room because Castiel _flinches_ , crumpling in on himself and whining like a kicked dog as he presses his forehead to where his hands have yet to release that goddamn chair. 

Losing his upper layers is not as much of a respite as it should be. Despite what Dean knows about the temperature in the room, the air still feels stifling hot and his skin still hurts the way it does when he stands too close to a pyre while lighting it. He understands now, more of what Sam was saying earlier—in just the time since Cas’ little confession, the discomfort in his belly and the heat pervading his whole body have gone from _annoying_ to _pretty fuckin’ uncomfortable_ to _downright painful_. At this point, Dean can wrap his head around the idea that if it escalates, he could die, or at the very least, that he’ll be wishing for it. 

“Cas,” he says again, impatient and irritated this time because _how_ is a man supposed to do the hardest thing there is, to confess feelings for his _best friend,_ if said friend won’t stop moaning and groaning about his shortcomings for long enough to listen? “Cas, you incredible dumbass,” Dean complains, attempting to get down off the bed but faltering, one foot tangling in the sheets, both legs weak underneath him and his head spinning wildly when he eventually does get vertical.

“Oh, shit.” 

Dean’s vision goes fuzzy and turns mostly black as he goes down. Even with his numb limbs and barely-conscious brain, he braces but somehow, doesn’t end up hitting the floor. When his vision clears, it’s to bright blue eyes staring down at him from only inches away, bared teeth, and an overwhelming wave of the most intoxicating mix of scents Dean has ever had his nose around. If he thought Castiel smelled good before, he had _no idea_. Now, it’s as if the way he smells was constructed with _Dean_ specifically in mind—Cas is beyond irresistible. _Cherries,_ ripe to bursting, hot out of the oven and marinating in a tantalizing mix of vanilla and their own juices. The best part of any pie, the filling, and Castiel somehow—

Still weak and uninterested in directing much conscious thought towards what his instincts are telling him to do, Dean presses his face flush into Castiel’s neck, like he belongs there, like he’s sure of his welcome. _And isn’t he?_ He smushes his nose right up against the skin over Cas’ pulse point where the cherry scent is strongest and inhales deeply. Just _touching_ Castiel, Dean’s hand on his neck and Castiel’s bare palms and forearms on his back cools Dean down, at least a little.That’s _some_ kind of unexpected relief—glass-of-lemonade-on-a-hot-day, blast-of-AC-from-an-open-door, ice-down-the-back-of-your-shirt, heat-index-of-110 _relief._

In fact, Dean is so caught up by all the thrilling sensations, it takes him more than a minute to realize that Castiel is _cradling_ him in his arms, and that’s why he’s not on the floor. As humiliating as that might be in literally any other circumstance, right now, Dean doesn’t have the brain power to be embarrassed. Mostly, he’s just hot, in every sense of the word.

That, along with the discomfort in his stomach _very_ quickly turning to unrepentant, throbbing pain, has him going along when Castiel lifts him back to his feet like a damsel in distress. Once he’s upright again, Dean knows that he should pull away, knows there was _something_ he wanted to say, but he just can’t help being wholly distracted by the Castiel-shaped wall of muscle and delicious-smelling beauty standing in front of him. 

As he struggles to remember, Castiel’s proximity makes another thing abundantly clear, as well—something that Dean perhaps didn’t completely understand before, and that’s the reason behind why Castiel was so intent on keeping his distance. 

It’s not just the scents and the relief of Castiel’s touch—it’s _Cas_ himself. His presence, strong and reassuring as it is, practically begs Dean to close the distance between them, to _take,_ to find solace and respite and whatever else he didn’t even know he was searching for in his arms. And Dean _wants_ to, moves forward to do exactly that, reaches out and—

But then Castiel closes his eyes and swallows hard, looking for all the world like it physically _hurts_ him to pull away from Dean. As the comfort of Castiel’s skin pressed against his own starts to disappear, Dean realizes that it probably _does_ , since it definitely does not feel good on his end. “Cas, stay,” he says quickly, voice coming out rough and low, sticking like sandpaper in his throat. Castiel starts to shake his head but Dean _remembers,_ knows exactly what he needs to say and barrels on, knowing full well that it’s now or never. “It wasn’t you,” he blurts out. “The spell, it wasn’t—I didn’t know you felt… I didn’t know you felt the same.” 

As Dean sucks in a terrified breath and licks his dry lips, Castiel’s eyes snap up off of the floor to meet his own. “Yea,” Dean says encouragingly, answering the question Castiel has yet to ask, because they really are running out of time, he can feel it. Animal instincts, or something a lot like them, are threatening to take over Dean completely and this _needs_ to be out of the way first. To emphasize his point, he closes fingers around the wrist of the arm Castiel’s removed from his back, wrapping it firmly around his waist once more before raising his eyebrows at his newly-human angel. “Clear enough?” he asks pointedly, the charge between them snapping and electric, begging Dean to give in. 

Apparently, that’s all the reassurance Castiel needs, because before Dean can so much as contemplate his next move, Cas is surging forward and pressing their lips together, hot and hard. It’s messy and ungraceful and way too obvious that Cas hasn’t done all that much kissing before, but Dean couldn’t care less because it’s _Cas_ and he feels incredible. All the places their skin touches have tiny, painful fires going out all over Dean’s body, and he can’t help but wonder what _Cas_ feels in return. If the desperate moans against his mouth are any indication, it’s something equally extraordinary. 

Half-leaning against the bed and half-struggling to stay upright, Dean fights with Castiel’s button-down while licking into his mouth relentlessly. It’s overwhelming, and Dean barely feels capable of processing the information that Castiel _tastes_ just like he smells, except that’s _shifting,_ sort of, the more they touch, the longer they kiss. As Dean’s tongue slides along the roof of Cas’ mouth, his vanilla-honeysuckle-cherry tang slowly turns more buttery, with a just-shy-of-burnt aftertaste. It’s like… a pie that’s been in the oven a _shade_ too long, which Dean can appreciate, he likes his crusts extra-golden. 

And _hell,_ sure, Dean’s brought food into the bedroom before, but this is like _eating_ the best pie in the world _while_ having sex and _never_ getting full, and fuck if that’s not more mind-blowing than the fact that he’s about to have _sex_ with Castiel, Angel of the Lord, at all. 

Despite Dean’s enthusiasm for removing it, Castiel’s shirt gets stuck around his wrists, Dean cursing colorfully at the bunched up fabric Castiel’s rolled to make the sleeves stay up by his elbows. After a bunch of frustrated tugging, a loud ripping sound, and some muttered threats from Dean that are muffled by Castiel’s mouth, he finally pulls free and immediately threads arms around Dean’s back to haul him up and toss him onto the bed. 

Unable to control his reaction to losing Castiel’s body pressed up tight against his own, Dean _whines,_ reaching out blindly to try and get him back, but only succeeding in tugging uselessly on a buff shoulder. The short loss is nearly worth it though, as Dean’s rewarded by Castiel _growling_ possessively _,_ the vibrations sending shivery tendrils of want down Dean’s spine and into his fingertips. Dean wonders vaguely if this is a kink, and it probably is, since he thinks he could maybe come just from feeling Castiel growl into his skin a few more times.

As Dean does his best not to lose it right there, Cas follows him down and rips his jeans and underwear off in one—slightly violent—smooth movement. “Holy fuck.” Dean pants, spreading his legs instinctively so that Castiel can crawl up between them and settle there. “That was _damn_ hot, c’mere.” He reaches up and grasps Castiel behind the neck, fingers skirting the short hair at his nape, and yanks him down, eager to get back to drowning himself in all the sensations Castiel’s body has to offer. 

But Castiel resists, sitting back slightly after only one too-short kiss and Dean groans, tries to tighten his thighs to knock Castiel off balance and back down on top of him. “Wait, Dean,” Castiel says urgently, his palm flat and determined in the middle of Dean’s chest, and that contact between them might be enough for Dean’s brain to refuse to process whatever Cas thinks he’s going to say next. 

“Cas,” Dean says, a lot more patiently than he feels. “I know you wanna… _ehhh—”_ Dean gestures around vaguely and makes a face, not remotely interested in having even _this_ shortened version of the conversation at the moment. “ _—_ with the feelings and the consent or whatever, but can we just skip all that for now? Just this once? I gotta be honest, I’m pretty sure if you don’t get your dick inside me in the next ten minutes, I am literally going to explode, and not in the sexy way.” 

Cas’ head has been hanging so that Dean can’t exactly see his face, and when he looks up, Dean’s arousal soars to new heights. Castiel’s eyes are dark, almost dangerous, sharp cheekbones highlighted with a pink blush and lips parted invitingly. “Dean,” he says slowly, carefully, Dean’s name rolling off his tongue like smooth whiskey poured over fresh ice. “I only wanted to ask—” Castiel pauses here to dip down and press an open-mouthed kiss to Dean’s belly, that goddamn tongue darting out to lick his skin and Dean’s helpless to do anything but curl fingers into his hair and gasp. When he speaks again, it’s into Dean’s fiery skin, head already moving south like he can’t _imagine_ Dean would deny him anything ( _he wouldn’t)_. “You smell _unbelievable,_ and I want to—” 

He presses more sloppy kisses to the inside of Dean’s thighs and then down, onto the fleshy curve of his ass and Dean can hardly breathe, but damn if Castiel wasn’t right—Dean couldn’t refuse him one single thing. “Turn over,” Castiel demands and _oh fuck,_ Dean likes bossy Cas more than he should. As he scrambles to comply, he can’t help but notice that while Castiel might be shirtless, his dress pants are still on, complete with belt, and Dean likes that _too, what the fuck is happening to him?_

Before he even realizes what he’s doing or the picture he’s painting, Dean is naked on his elbows and knees with his ass up high in the air. There’s no time to change course or even feel ashamed, though, because once again, Castiel _growls_ as he rubs his face against Dean’s left ass cheek, the vibrations affecting Dean all the way down to his toes. _Clearly, Cas likes what he’s seeing,_ and if that’s true, Dean can’t catch hold of any good reason why he should feel ashamed, even if he _is_ presenting his ass like a gift.

“ _Whiskey,_ ” Castiel rasps, hot breath ghosting over all of Dean’s most intimate places. “Campfire smoke, buttery leather, pastries. _How_ is this possible?” His stubble drags across Dean’s sensitive skin, the barest pass of lips brushing over his now soaking wet hole, and Dean keens, fisting his fingers in the sheets beneath him, though this time, it’s not out of anxiety. “You smell like everything good in the world, everything I already associate with you, and _home._ How can you smell like _home,_ to _me?”_

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean pleads, nearly delirious at this point, rocking on his knees and barely able to keep a coherent thought in his head as Castiel’s hand rubs soothingly up his back and down his thigh. He’s not even sure that his words make it out his mouth audible or discernible but, “Please, please,” he begs anyway. “Cas, _fuck_.” 

“Shh,” Castiel soothes, his teeth closing over a patch of skin near the crease where Dean’s ass meets his thigh and either everything is _heightened_ between them, or those teeth are sharper than usual—sharper than any human Dean’s ever bedded, anyway. As his teeth release, Cas’ hand travels up Dean’s spine again, comforting until it’s gone, reappearing to pull Dean’s cheeks apart along with his other hand to give Castiel access to—

“Oh, _god_ ,” Dean cries out, slamming his palm against the flimsy motel headboard and making it rattle. Castiel’s tongue is fire and ice at the same time, tracing teasing circles around Dean’s rim before plunging boldly inside as Castiel himself grabs Dean’s hips and drags him closer. For a guy who didn’t seem to know what to do with his lips a few minutes prior, Castiel sure seems to have a learning curve that would put a Rhodes scholar to shame. He nips and licks and fucking _slurps_ with the filthiest moans, and Dean wouldn’t believe any of this if he wasn’t on the literal receiving end. 

Still, as good as Cas’ tongue in his ass feels, it’s not the _very specific_ relief Dean knows that he needs, and his body is becoming more and more impatient by the second. The bliss of Castiel’s hands and mouth wars with the pain in his stomach and Dean is _just_ about to start begging when Castiel pulls away, flips him over, and covers his body with his own once again. 

Blinking past lust-heavy eyelids, Dean whimpers a little (though he’ll deny it to his grave if anyone asks) to see Castiel’s increasingly disheveled state. The mussed hair and residual wetness on his face, _holy fuck,_ just _looking_ at him is Dean’s every wet dream come to life. Instinctually, Dean leans up and kisses him without hesitation, reaching down between them to fumble with the _stupid_ belt Castiel still has on. In response, Castiel moans greedily into his mouth, cups the back of his head and kisses him deeply, thoroughly, and Dean can guess why. 

He tastes himself, all the things Castiel had been describing, but on Castiel’s tongue the profile shifts, which is strange but no less incredible for it. The more that they kiss, the more _Castiel’s_ scents and flavors blend into it, and by the time Dean is working Cas’ pants down over his thighs, _boom,_ fresh-baked cherry pie. 

That’d be a thing to linger on, to explore and suss out and marvel over at _any_ other time, but right now, Dean needs exactly one thing, and one thing only. _Cas’ pants are down far enough,_ he decides, taking full advantage of the fact that Castiel is still making out with him eagerly to wrap fingers around Cas’ _impressive as fuck cock_ and guide it towards his hole. Distantly, he wonders if the size and girth are all _Cas,_ or if this is part of the spell—either way, Dean’s not particularly mad at the self-lubricating situation, at least at the moment. 

When the crown of Castiel’s cock bumps up against his entrance, Dean can’t hold back the needy moan that bubbles up in his throat. “C’mon, Cas,” he murmurs desperately, turning his head so that Castiel’s mouth is forced to relocate to his jaw and neck, which he doesn’t seem to have any problem with, getting to work sucking bruises into skin almost immediately. “Focus, sweetheart. Gonna need some help, here.” With a low grunt, Castiel shifts his weight forward, getting up on his knees and thereby spreading Dean’s thighs in the process. He pushes forward, the head of his cock popping easily past Dean’s rim and making Castiel groan and Dean gasp, nails digging into Castiel’s back. 

It’s magnetic and instinctual from that point forward, Dean’s eyes rolling back in his head and his hips thrusting forward to take Castiel all the way inside. The arm he has slung around Castiel’s shoulders tightens, encouraging him on, and Castiel responds in kind.

“Perfection, Dean,” he mutters, grabbing a fistful of Dean’s hair and yanking it back to expose his neck as he fucks him slow and deep. The pain in Dean’s belly simmers and then disappears completely, replaced with the layered emotions of _want_ and desire, the fire on his skin settling into a low roil that’s hot in all the right ways, instead of threatening to devour him whole. 

No, that would be Cas’ job, and he’s sure as hell doing it. Dean’s helpless beneath him, boneless and pliant, letting Castiel haul his leg up over his arm, bite at his nipples, ravage him so fully and completely he almost wonders if there will be anything left when they’re done. If the alternative is giving this up, Dean can’t bring himself to care. Let Castiel swallow him whole, let him burn them both to ashes, Dean’s already long-fucking _gone._

With Castiel’s cock moving methodically inside him, hitting his prostate on nearly every other thrust, it doesn’t take long for the tension to build in his groin. Half-dazed, Dean sneaks a hand in between them and strokes himself the way that he likes, in time with Castiel’s patient rhythm. It all amounts to some kind of flawless perfection Dean could never have imagined being with _Cas_ would be like, and _boy_ has he had a few consummate fantasies. The cherry pie smell and taste is all around them, Castiel’s skin is hot and slick against his own, and the slide of their bodies moving together is stunningly harmonious. There’s no pain, despite Cas’ size, just a smooth, endless drag of Castiel’s cock against Dean’s insides—all pleasure, all comfort and bliss, _luxury_ in an otherwise almost brutally carnal act. 

And Castiel himself—Dean’s never been with someone _so_ in the moment, so _into him,_ like he just can’t get enough, like if it were possible, he might unhinge his jaw and swallow Dean whole because he’s _starving_ for him, even though they’re together right now. He kisses Dean’s mouth reverently, like he can’t ever imagine stopping, and when he’s not, his lips are discovering every other stretch of skin within reach, from the inside of Dean’s knee to his sternum, and Dean, surprisingly, _loves_ it. Loves _Cas._

Lost in Cas as he is, it’s almost a disappointment when Dean feels the crest approaching; he’s not _done._ He wants Castiel in every way he’ll take him—fast and dirty on his knees or up against the wall, laying chest-to-back and moving slow and deep, _all of it._ But his breath is coming short and Dean can already feel the _relief_ at the end of the tunnel closing around him. This is biological—he _needs_ to come, needs it badly, more than he’s ever needed anything before in his entire life. 

Ultimately, all it takes is for Cas to close a fist around Dean’s cock and he’s done—crying out and digging nails into Castiel’s bicep as he tenses up and spills hard between them. The orgasm feels like it goes on forever, white clouds drifting across his vision and _him and Cas and him and Cas_ in an infinite stretch of time, nothing and no one else in the world that matters but _them_.

When he starts to come back down, still shaking and breathing like he ran a marathon, Castiel is pushing arms underneath his shoulders, holding Dean tight as his thrusts pick up speed and force and— _what the hell is that?_ It’s too late for Dean to argue or protest or even ask why it feels like his asshole is being stretched _even wider_ as Castiel pushes in hard and stays there, rolling his hips and screaming through his orgasm and clutching Dean so tightly Dean’s relieved he lost his angelic strength because _ouch._ Cas is beefy enough as a human, and Dean still needs his ribs.

But it all feels _good—_ incredible, actually, and instinctively, Dean tips his head back and pulls Castiel’s face down to his neck. Castiel’s screams immediately turn to a growl, and then he’s sinking teeth into Dean’s neck, hard enough that Dean _knows_ the skin must have broken under them, but to Dean, it just feels _explosively_ euphoric, almost better than his orgasm. Fingers tangled in Castiel’s hair, Dean’s legs kick out underneath him as he bucks and holds Castiel tight all the way through it.

When it’s over, when they’re both panting and quiet and Dean’s still seeing stars, he can feel the blood running down over his shoulder and pooling on the sheets. _Holy fuck._

“Um, Cas,” Dean starts, hesitating when Castiel finally stops shivering and his breathing begins to even out. “You’re uh… I think you’re still hard, buddy.” 

“No,” Castiel replies, words muffled in the skin of Dean’s increasingly tender neck. “It’s a knot.” 

Dean blinks up at the ceiling, part of him wondering if he really wants to know. “Excuse me?” 

With a sigh, Castiel grabs Dean’s waist and rolls them onto their sides, taking care to ensure Dean’s thigh gets pulled up so that he stays seated in his lap. The position is slightly awkward, but better than being crushed by all six foot whatever of Cas’ muscles. At least this way, they can look into each other’s eyes, though the regret that Castiel’s looking back at him with doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. No one should be able to look that pathetic and doleful with blood all over their chin and their dick still up someone else’s ass, Dean’s just saying. 

“The knot—it’s part of being an alpha, and it’s part of what is keeping your heat symptoms at bay.” Dean just gapes, deflating a little from his high, and Castiel shrugs. “I read the relevant portion of the book Sam found. Don’t worry, it should go down in twenty to thirty minutes.” 

Steeling himself, Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, counting to five before he reacts. “You know what,” he says, after he opens them, “I don’t even have the energy to be upset about this.” To Dean’s amusement, Castiel visibly brightens, and Dean absolutely does _not_ find it cute. _Nothing_ is cute when there’s an overinflated cock stuck fast up your ass, and your blood is all over your best friend’s face. “On the condition that you never mention this again and we tell absolutely no one that it happened, ‘specially Sammy.” 

The little furrow in Castiel’s brow deepens again. “I believe that Sam knows already,” he relays, and Dean makes a distressed noise which has Castiel smartly changing tact immediately. The flat of his hand makes its way over Dean’s shoulder, gentle, soothing. “Dean, I’m sorry that I didn’t confess my feelings to you sooner,” he says softly, fingers tracing circles on the skin of Dean’s back.

“Yea, well,” Dean replies with a shrug, grabbing a corner of the sheet and wiping at Castiel’s face without much success. Castiel doesn’t try to stop him, but he doesn’t help either, wholly unbothered by his vampire-look, apparently. “I wasn’t exactly Susie-shares-a-lot myself. Anyway, we’re here now,” he says gruffly. “With any luck, Sam will ice this bitch and then we can all go back to normal.” 

Dean Winchester is no rocket scientist, but it wouldn’t take a genius to see why that was the absolute wrong thing to say at that particular moment. Castiel’s face falls heavily and Dean immediately kicks himself, rushing to explain. “No, ah, shit. That’s not what I meant,” he mutters, more to himself than anything else, but Castiel eyes him warily. “Normal like, you know, we have to buy lube at the store, not make it _in my ass,_ ” Dean explains, frustrated. “And like, you go back to smelling like… I dunno, laundry detergent and my shampoo, maybe even sweat, you know, if this human thing takes. Not that I don’t appreciate the cherry pie thing,” he amends. “But I’m kinda hungry now and we’re stuck together, so.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of unsatisfying, if you want my opinion on it. And it’s not _you._ Also the biting thing. Yea, it was damn hot for a one-time thing, but I don’t have a blood kink.” 

Castiel’s eyes shift down to Dean’s neck, and his fingers come up to survey the damage. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, fingertips brushing over sensitive skin that Dean hopes only needs a band-aid and not actual stitches. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I wanted you to,” Dean assures him truthfully, taking Castiel’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and forcing him to meet his eyes. “You hear me? Ain’t even a thing.” 

“You might have a scar,” Castiel points out, but Dean just shrugs.

“Got a lot of scars, from a lot less pleasant things. You gonna like me less with another one?” 

“Of course not,” Castiel replies swiftly, looking genuinely confused as to why Dean would think that. _Adorable._

“Well okay then,” Dean says brightly. They lay there in silence for a few more minutes, until Dean starts to notice a change in the pressure in his ass. “Cas, I think you should try to move now,” he suggests. _“Carefully.”_

Experimentally, Castiel tugs, slipping free with a hand on his deflated cock to brace it, but otherwise very little fanfare. He winces but then sits up, his expression worried. “There’s no knot,” Castiel says, obviously concerned. “And that was not twenty minutes.” 

Shrugging, Dean stretches out on the bed, yawning and feeling his joints pop, luxuriating in feeling both sated and pain-free, _finally._ Also making the _“things Dean is grateful for”_ list is the fact that he’s no longer impaled on anything or anyone, nice as it may have been at the time. When Castiel’s face doesn’t relax, Dean reaches out and drifts a hand down his arm, sitting up a little in order to eyeball Cas’ cock, which, in his opinion, looks extremely normal, if flaccid. “Uh… is this like, an alpha virility thing, or what? Because Cas, I’m not exactly sorry you weren’t stuck up my ass for longer,” Dean says helpfully. 

“No, Dean.” Castiel scowls, huffing an exasperated sigh. Suddenly, he turns towards Dean, reaching out a hand to lay it across his forehead. “Are you hot? At all?” 

With his most charming smile plastered on, Dean stretches his arms towards the ceiling and falls back against the sheets, lounging seductively. “I mean, you tell me,” he replies, with a wiggle of his eyebrows. 

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, apparently back to being no-nonsense as usual. 

“Yea, fine, you’re no fun.” Dean pouts, but then he really thinks about it, takes stock of his body and finds that he really isn’t hot anymore at all. “No, I’m not,” he admits. “Actually, I feel great, pretty normal. No pain, no weird fire under my skin.”

Abruptly, Castiel turns and straddles Dean’s hips, having apparently gotten his pants off the rest of the way at some point while they were fucking. Without hesitation, Cas grabs his hands and pins them over his head, leaning down as if he’s going to kiss Dean silly but stopping _just_ before their lips make contact. Despite everything, Dean’s dick gives an interested twitch and Dean bites his own lip. “Whoa there, buddy,” he says with a smirk. “Gonna need a few more minutes of recovery time, capiche?” 

“Did you leak?” Castiel asks impatiently, and Dean blinks, smile fading from his face as he takes stock of his ass. 

“I mean… there’s, uh, definitely a situation in there, and it’s sorta hard to… No, not as far as I can tell. Oh, shit,” he says, realization dawning bright as Castiel smiles down at him. “You think Sam got her? That the spell’s reversed?”

“Smell me,” Castiel insists, dragging Dean’s face up to his neck and holding it there. Not faced with much of a choice, Dean inhales, finding himself equal parts relieved and disappointed at the result.

“No cherry,” he announces before Castiel takes his turn sniffing Dean. As he does, Dean notes that their skin touching no longer feels like electricity or fire, but it’s still warm and sweet, and Cas’ proximity still gives him a nice buzz just beneath his skin that he can’t wait to explore further. 

“No leather. No smoke. No _home,_ ” Castiel confirms when he lifts his head. He doesn’t sound nearly as pleased as Dean feels, and secretly, Dean gets it. Not that he’s saying so, or that he would voluntarily sign up to be a lube machine again, but the whole thing did have some perks. Still, he and Cas have had more than their share of chick-flick moments for one decade, enough is enough. 

That hard line in the sand lasts a whole thirty seconds of Dean observing Cas’ dejected, insecure face before he sighs and gives in. _Oh hell, today’s a freebie,_ he decides. _One more for the road. One more for Cas._

“I’m still your home,” he says gruffly, tipping Castiel’s chin up to ensure that he sees that Dean is as serious as he gets. “I’ll always be your home, long as you want me to be.” 

The relieved look on Castiel’s handsome face would be enough for Dean to burn cities to the ground just to keep it there, more so as he leans forward to bring their mouths together once more and Cas meets him halfway.

Of course, Sam picks _that_ exact moment to key open the door, jumping back and hollering loudly in distress at the sight that meets his eyes.

“Serves you right for not knocking,” Dean hollers after his brother as the door slams closed again in his wake. He looks back at Castiel and shrugs. “We’ll get the details tomorrow,” he says. “Right now, I think we have more important things to do.”

Castiel’s face scrunches up and his head tips to the side in question. “Like what?”

Dean just grins. “Like seein’ if you and me together is just as good without all the magical bells and whistles, for starters. I have this crazy feeling, that it might actually be better.” 

Cherry pie aside, Dean still thinks he can taste the smile on Castiel’s face as he leans down to kiss him again, the happiness he’s radiating just as palpable as it was earlier with the curse still driving them. Pleased, he lets the tips of his fingers brush over the bite mark on his neck—it’s still there, and you know what? Dean’s happy to keep it. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't understand the _Boondock Saints_ reference, you can watch the clip [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MsuH1msEkvM), but I highly recommend the movie, it's the shit.


End file.
